21,25 seconds, and the ox go "moo"

Faces pulled from carbon paper. They come and go, appear and vanish, the same school of grimaces, the same poems drowning in honey, or rusty doors whining and posing. It’s an unseen war between faces, a race for likes, fantasies short enough to pass but long enough to leave you shell-shocked.

21.25 seconds. That’s the exact weight decided by the "Dr. PhDs" of TikTok. It’s perfectly calibrated for the male brain, just like progesterone in a pill for cattle. 21.25, and the ox goes "moo" and scrolls. 15.32 for a quick makeup tutorial, and the cow goes "moo" and scrolls.

A constant hypnosis and a theft of life. Lost between tabs, we jump from TikTok to Twitter to Facebook to TikTok again. It’s like a Coca-Cola dispenser: TikTok is the syrup; Instagram is the carbonated water—bloated just like the belly. The brain becomes "obese" at thinking; it moves heavily, it pants, it’s exhausted from so much junk-scrolling. The eyes are tired and worn out like a tire after 100,000 km. Myopia is stalking us... nearsighted cows and oxen, fat-minded, a herd of cattle.

Empty-eyed mugs, bovine stares—without a father, without a mother, without a country, without heroes. They don't know where they came from, they don't know where they're going. No questions, no inner turmoil, no doubts, no opinions. Born from rainwater like yesterday's mushrooms; sons of the rain, "Mr. Nobody," twisting their faces like fools just so the world can see how stupid they are.

Look at the cows running, shaking their asses, and the oxen right behind them; everyone’s in a hurry to get nowhere.